7/27

Someday, I know that I will be writing posts about how hard it is now that Zac doesn't need me to wipe his butt or calm his fears. Someday, I will reminisce about how much I miss hearing his cries as I walk out of the room or see his cute face dissolve into a teary, oh-so-relieved smile when he sees me again. Someday, he will walk on his own, talk on his own, poop on his own, and maybe even have kids of his own.

That day is not today.

I love my son. That much should be obvious by the acres of archives that I'm starting to build on this site. No amount of love, though, can make up for the fact that I miss going pee by myself. I miss closing the door without hearing him scream like I just cut off his left hand. I miss gallivanting from home from the grocery store without strategically planning how I'm going to get the groceries in the apartment while still being attached at the hip to a one year-old. Occasionally, mommy needs two hands. Hell, occasionally mommy needs five hands, eight feet, and two heads. Maybe then I could finally get my living room vacuumed or take the load out of the washing machine. Maybe I could watch a full episode of "So You Think You Can Dance?" without wondering what song the people are dancing to.

My self-pity culminated yesterday evening when Zac and I were asked to leave our Weight Watchers meeting. How can you be asked to leave a place whose slogan is, "Come Join!"? WTF. The irony was driven even further home because the visiting instructor's 'message' for the evening was group support. She even drew the stupid flying-V on the white board and retold the lame Canadian geese metaphor. We get it. We're stronger as a team, supporting each other, achieving our weight loss goals. "Gooooo TEAM!" and all of that. I guess single Moms that can't leave their teething kids at home won't get picked for that team.

Where I am supposed to go for support? I pay the same $10 a week that every other person in that room paid to be told that I'm a success. I don't care if you have to scream over my child to make yourself heard. Welcome to my world. Do you have any idea how crazy I get after listening to him scream (in this order): at his toys, at me, at the cell phone I'm trying to have an adult conversation on, at me again, and then crumple onto the rug in a wet heap of screaming toddler? Let me tell you. It's pretty crazy. Maybe a couple of my five arms and eight legs could stay home with him while the other appendages try to lose weight.